The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack

by R. Austin Freeman

  But whatever his methods may have been, the results made him invaluable to Thorndyke, for he could keep up a continuous observation on persons or places with practically no risk of being recognized.

  Reflecting on these facts—on Mr. Snuper’s remarkable personality, his peculiar gifts and the purposes to which they were commonly applied—I asked myself once more, could there be anything behind his presence at the People’s Museum of Modern Art? And—so far as I was concerned—answer there was none. My discovery had simply landed me with one more problem to which I could find no solution.

  CHAPTER 18

  Mr. Newman

  The premonitory rumblings which had so disturbed Linnell continued for some days, warning him to make all necessary preparations for the defense; and in spite of the scepticism which we all felt as to the practicability of a prosecution, the tension increased from day to day.

  And then the bombshell exploded. The alarming fact was communicated to us in a hurried note from Linnell which informed us that a summons had been served on Mrs. Gannet that very morning, citing her to appear at the Police Court on the third day after that on which it was issued to answer to the charge of having, as an accessory after the fact of the murder of Peter Gannet, harboured, sheltered, or otherwise aided the accused person to evade justice.

  Thorndyke appeared to be as surprised as I was, and a good deal more concerned. He read Linnell’s note with a grave face and reflected on it with what seemed to me to be uncalled for anxiety.

  “I can’t imagine,” said I, “what sort of evidence Blandy could produce. He can’t know where Boles is, or he would have arrested him. And if he doesn’t, he couldn’t have discovered any evidence of any communications between Boles and Mrs. Gannet.”

  “No,” Thorndyke agreed, “that seems quite clear. There can have been no intercepted letters from her, for the obvious reason that such letters would have had to be addressed in such a way as to reach him and thus reveal his whereabouts. And yet one feels that the police would not have taken action unless Blandy had produced enough facts to enable them to make out a prima facie case. Blandy might have been ready to gamble on his powers of persuasion, but the responsible authorities would not risk having the case dismissed by the magistrate. It is very mysterious. On my theory of the crime, it is practically certain that Mrs. Gannet could not have been an accessory either before or after the fact.”

  These observations gave me some clue to Thorndyke’s anxiety; for they conveyed to me that Blandy’s case, if he really had one, would not fit Thorndyke’s theory. I put the suggestion to him in so many words, and he agreed frankly.

  “The trouble is,” said he, “that my scheme of the crime is purely hypothetical. It is based on a train of deductive reasoning from the facts which are known to us all. I am in possession of no knowledge other than that which is possessed equally by Blandy and by you. The reasoning by which I reached my conclusions seems to me perfectly sound. But I may have fallen into some fallacy, or it may be that there are some material facts which are not known to me, but which are known to Blandy. One of us is mistaken. Naturally, I hope that the mistake is Blandy’s; but it may be mine. However, we shall see when the prosecution opens the case.”

  “I assume,” said I, “that you will attend at the hearing.”

  “Undoubtedly,” he replied. “We must be there to hear what Blandy has to say, if he gives evidence, and what sort of case the prosecution proposes to make out; and then we have to give Linnell any help that he may require. I suppose you will lend us the support of your presence?”

  “Of course I shall come,” I replied. “I am as curious as you are to hear what the prosecution has to say. I shall make a very special point of being there.”

  But that visit to the Police court was never to take place, for on that very night the “events” on which Thorndyke had been waiting began to loom up on our horizon. They were ushered in by the appearance at our chambers of a young man of Jewish aspect and secretive bearing who, having been interviewed by Polton, had demanded personal audience of Thorndyke and had refused to indicate his name or business to any other person. Accordingly, he was introduced to us by Polton, who, having conducted him into the presence, stood by and kept him under observation until he was satisfied that the visitor had no unlawful or improper designs; then he retired and shut the door.

  As the door closed, the stranger produced from an inner pocket a small packet wrapped in newspaper which he proceeded to open; and, having extracted from it a letter in a sealed envelope, silently handed the letter to Thorndyke; who broke the seal and read through the evidently short note which it contained.

  “If you will wait a few minutes,” said he, placing a chair for the messenger, “I will give you a note to take with you. Are you going straight back?”

  “Yes,” was the reply. “He’s waiting for me.”

  Thereupon Thorndyke sat down at the writing table, and having written a short letter, put it in an envelope, which he sealed with wax and handed to the messenger, together with a ten shilling note.

  “That,” said he, “is the fee for services rendered so far. There will be another at the end of the return journey. I have mentioned the matter in my letter.”

  The messenger received the note with an appreciative grin and a few words of thanks, and having disposed of it in some secret receptacle, wrapped the letter in the newspaper which had enclosed the other, stowed it away in an inner pocket and took his departure.

  “That,” said Thorndyke, when he had gone, “was a communication from Snuper, who is deputizing for Sancroft at the People’s Museum. He tells me that the owner of Gannet’s masterpiece is going to call tomorrow morning and take possession of his property.”

  “Is that any concern of ours?” I asked.

  “It is a concern of mine,” he replied. “I am anxious not to lose sight of that monkey. There are several things about it which interest me, and if it is to be taken away from the museum, I want to learn, if I can, where it is going, in case I might wish at some future time to make a further examination of it. So I propose to go to the museum tomorrow morning and try to find out from Mr. Newman where he keeps his collection and how the monkey is to be disposed of. It is possible, for instance, that he may be a dealer, in which case there would be the danger of the monkey’s disappearing to some unknown destination.”

  “I shouldn’t think that he is a dealer,” said I. “He would never get his money back. Probably he is a sort of Broomhill, but, of course, he may live in the provinces or even abroad. At what time do you propose to turn up at the museum?”

  “The place opens at nine o’clock in the morning and Snuper expects Mr. Newman to arrive at about that time. I have told him that I shall be there at half-past eight.”

  Now on the face of it, the transaction did not promise any very thrilling experiences, but there was something a little anomalous about the whole affair. Thorndyke’s interest in that outrageous monkey was quite incomprehensible to me, and I had the feeling that there was something more in this expedition than was conveyed in the mere statement of Thorndyke’s intentions and objects. Accordingly, I threw out a tentative suggestion. “If I should propose to make one of the party, would my presence be helpful or otherwise?”

  “My dear fellow,” he replied, “your presence is always helpful. I had, in fact, intended to ask you to accompany me. Up to the present you have not seemed to appreciate the importance of the monkey in this remarkable case; but it is possible that you may gather some fresh ideas on the subject tomorrow morning. So come by all means. And now I must go and make the necessary preparations, and you had better do the same. We shall start from here not later than a quarter to eight.”

  With this he went up to the laboratory floor, whence, presently, I heard the distant tinkle of the telephone bell. Apparently he was making some kind of appointment, for shortly afterwards his footsteps were audible on the stairs descending to the entry, and I saw him no more until he came in to smoke
a final pipe before going to bed.

  On the following morning, Polton, having aroused me by precautionary and (as I thought, premature) thumpings on my door, served a ridiculously early breakfast and then took his stand on the door-step to keep a lookout for the taxi which had been chartered overnight. Evidently he had been duly impressed with the importance of the occasion, as apparently had the taxi man, for he arrived at half-past seven and his advent was triumphantly reported by Polton just as I was pouring out my second cup of tea. But after all there was not so very much time to spare, for in Fleet Street, Cornhill and Bishopsgate, all the wheeled vehicles in London seemed to have been assembled to do us honour and retard our progress; it was a quarter past eight when we alighted opposite the Geffrye Museum, and having dismissed the taxi, began to walk at a leisurely pace northward along the Kingsland Road.

  When we were a short distance from our destination, I observed a man walking towards us, and at a second glance, I actually recognized Mr. Snuper. As soon as he saw us, he turned about and walked back to the People’s Museum, where he unlocked the door and entered. On our arrival we found the door ajar and Mr. Snuper lurking just inside, ready to close the door as soon as we had passed in.

  “Well, Snuper,” said Thorndyke, as we emerged from the lobby into the main room, “everything seems to have gone according to plan so far. You didn’t give any particulars in your letter. How did you manage the adjournment?”

  “It didn’t require much management, sir,” Snuper replied. “The affair came off by itself quite naturally. Mr. Sancroft didn’t come to the museum yesterday. He had to go out of town on business and, of course, as I was here, there was no reason why he shouldn’t go. So I was here all alone when Mr. Newman came just before closing time. He told me what he had come for and showed me the letter of introduction and the receipt which he had written out and signed. But I explained to him that I was not the curator and had no authority to allow any of the exhibits to be taken away from the museum. Besides, the case was locked and Mr. Sancroft had the key of the safe in which the other keys were kept, so I could not get the figure out even if I had been authorized to part with it.

  “He was very disappointed and inclined to be huffy, but it couldn’t be helped, and after all, he had only to wait a few hours. I told him that Mr. Sancroft would be here today and would arrive in time to open the museum as usual, so I expect Newman will turn up pretty punctually about nine o’clock. Possibly, he will be waiting outside when Mr. Sancroft comes to let himself in.”

  This forecast, however, was falsified a few minutes later, for Mr. Sancroft arrived before his time and locked the door when he had entered. Naturally, he knew nothing of what had been happening in his absence and was somewhat surprised to find Thorndyke and me in the museum. But whatever explanations were called for must have been given by Snuper, who followed Sancroft into the curator’s room and shut the door behind him; and, judging by the length of the interview, I assumed that Sancroft was being put in possession of such facts as it was necessary for him to know.

  While this conference was proceeding, Thorndyke reconnoitered the galleries in what seemed to me a very odd way. He appeared to be searching for some place whence he could observe the entrance and the main gallery without being himself visible. Having tried one or two of the higher cases, and apparently finding them unsuitable, owing to his exceptional stature, he turned his attention to the small room which opened from the main gallery and was devoted entirely to water colours. The entrance of this room was exactly opposite the case which contained the “Figurine of a Monkey,” and it also faced the main doorway. But it seemed to have a further attraction for Thorndyke; for, on the wall nearly opposite to the entrance, hung a large water colour painting, the glass of which, taken at the proper angle, reflected the whole of the principal room, the main doorway, and the case in which the monkey was exhibited. I tried it when Thorndyke had finished his experiments, and found that, not only did it reflect a perfectly clear image, owing to the very dark colouring of the picture, but that the observer looking into it was quite invisible from the main gallery, or indeed, to anyone who did not actually enter the small room.

  This was an interesting discovery, in its way. But the most interesting part of it was Thorndyke’s motive in seeking this secret point of observation. Once more I decided that things were not quite what they had seemed. As I had understood the programme, Thorndyke was going to introduce himself to Mr. Newman and try to ascertain the destination and future whereabouts of the monkey. But with this purpose, Thorndyke’s present proceedings seemed to have no connection.

  However, there was not much time for speculation on my part, for, at this point Mr. Snuper emerged from the curator’s room and, walking up the gallery, unlocked the front door and threw it open; and, as he returned, accompanied by a man who had slipped in as the door opened, I realized that the proceedings, whatever they might be, had begun.

  “Keep out of sight for the present,” Thorndyke directed me in a whisper; and, forthwith, I flattened myself against the wall and fixed an eager gaze on the picture as well as I could without obstructing Thorndyke’s view. In the reflection I could see Snuper and his companion advance until they were within a few yards of the place where we were lurking, and then I heard Snuper say:

  “If you will give me the letter and the receipt, I will take them in to Mr. Sancroft and get the key of the case, unless he wishes to hand the figure to you himself.”

  With this, he retired into the curator’s room and shut the door; and as he disappeared, the stranger—presumably Mr. Newman—who, I could now see, carried a largish handbag, advanced to the case which contained the monkey and stood peering into it with his back to us, and so near that I could have put out my hand and touched him. As he stood thus, Thorndyke put his head round the jamb of the doorway to examine him by direct vision, and after a few moments’ inspection, stepped out, moving quite silently on the solid parquet floor, and took up a position close behind him. Whereupon I, following his example, came out into the middle of the doorway and stood behind Thorndyke to see what was going to happen next.

  For a few moments nothing happened; but just then I became aware of two men lurking in the lobby of the main entrance, half hidden by the inner door and quite hidden from Newman by the case at which he was standing. Suddenly Newman seemed to become conscious of the presence of someone behind him, for he turned sharply and faced Thorndyke. Then I knew that something critical was going to happen, and I realized, too, that Thorndyke had got his “one crucial fact.” For as the stranger’s eyes met Thorndyke’s, he gave one wild stare of horror and amazement and his face blanched to a deathly pallor. But he uttered no word; and after that one ghastly stare, turned about and appeared to resume his contemplation of the figurine.

  Then three things happened in quick succession: First, Thorndyke took off his hat; then the door of the curator’s room opened and Snuper and Sancroft emerged; and then the two men whom I had noticed came out of the lobby and walked quickly up to the place where Newman and Thorndyke were standing. I looked at them curiously as they approached, and recognized them both. One was Detective Sergeant Wills of the C.I.D. The other was no less a person than Detective Inspector Blandy.

  By this time Newman seemed, to some extent, to have recovered his self-possession, whereas Blandy, on the contrary, looked nervous and embarrassed. The former, ignoring the police officers, addressed himself to Sancroft, demanding the speedy conclusion of his business. But here Blandy intervened, with little confidence but more than his usual politeness.

  “I must ask you to pardon me, sir,” he began, “for interrupting your business, but there are one or two questions that I want you to be so kind as to answer.”

  Newman looked at him in evident alarm but replied gruffly:

  “I have no time to answer questions. Besides, you are a stranger to me, and I don’t think I have any concern in your affairs.”

  “I am a police officer,” Blandy explained,
“and I—”

  “Then I am sure I haven’t,” snapped Newman.

  “I wanted to ask you a few questions in connection with a most unfortunate affair that happened at Newingstead last September,” Blandy continued persuasively; but Newman cut him short with the brusque rejoinder:

  “Newingstead? I never heard of the place, and of course I know nothing about it.”

  Blandy looked at him with a baffled expression and then turned an appealing face to Thorndyke.

  “Can you give us something definite, sir?” he asked.

  “I thought I had,” Thorndyke replied. “At any rate, I now accuse this man, Newman, as he calls himself, of having murdered Constable Murray at Newingstead on the 19th of last September. That justifies you in making the arrest; and then—well, you know what to do.”

  But still Blandy seemed undecided. The man’s evident terror and the glare of venomous hatred that he cast on Thorndyke, proved nothing. Accordingly, the Inspector, apparently puzzled and unconvinced, sought to temporize.

  “If you would allow me, Mr. Newman,” said he, “to take an impression of your left thumb, any mistake that may have been made could be set right in a moment. Now what do you say?”

  “I say that I will see you damned first,” Newman replied fiercely, edging away from the Inspector and thereby impinging on the massive form of Sergeant Wills, which occupied the only avenue of escape.

  “You’ve got a definite charge, you know, Inspector,” Thorndyke reminded him in a warning tone, still narrowly watching the accused man; and something significant in the way the words were spoken helped Blandy to make up his mind.

  “Well, then, Mr. Newman,” said he, “if you won’t give us any assistance, it’s your own lookout. I arrest you on the charge of having murdered Police Constable Murray at Newingstead on the 19th of last September and I caution you that—”

  The rest of the caution faded out, for Newman made a sudden movement and was in an instant clasped in the arms of Sergeant Wills, who had skilfully seized the prisoner’s wrists from behind and held them immovably pressed against his chest. Almost at the same moment, Blandy sprang forward and grasped the prisoner’s ears in order to secure his head and defeat his attempts to bite the sergeant’s hands. But Newman was evidently a powerful ruffian, and his struggles were so violent that the two officers had the greatest difficulty in holding him, even when Snuper and I tried to control his arms. In the narrow interval between two glass cases, we all swayed to and fro, gyrating slowly and making uncomfortable contacts with sharp corners. Presently Blandy turned his streaming face towards Thorndyke and gasped: “Could you manage the print, Doctor? You can see I can’t let go. The kit is in my right hand coat pocket.”